


Love Affair

by FeelTheCold



Category: American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 08:01:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeelTheCold/pseuds/FeelTheCold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had been cursed from the beginning, barely having been given a chance to make something of herself and thrive. It wasn't as if Fiona could have changed her genetics. - Rated M for chapters to come. This is my first attempt at a Fiona/Axeman fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Affair

**Author's note: The obsession that I have with Fiona, and Jessica Lange in general, is probably really unhealthy, but there's just this little voice in my head that won't allow me to stop toying with the depth of her character. This is going to be a story that I already know I'm interested in continuing, but we'll see how it goes. This is a story that has been set on the backburner for a couple of weeks now, but I've finally gotten around to tweaking it.**

**To my loyal and supportive reviewers, thank you for your kind words. You guys truly keep me level-headed and focused. Your generosity doesn't go unnoticed. Enjoy!**

**~oOoOoOo~**

Difficulty was an understatement, a contradictory word that would have made Fiona crow in beguilement had anything about this situation been humorous. Fiona was having strenuous time, a better description, trying to cope with her contemporary—and not entirely welcomed with open arms—lifestyle. She was, as some would say, a chaotic woman; a witch that had a very cluttered mind, littered with turmoil, longing, brackishness, and most of all… brazen need; a compulsion to be wanted—desired—an unabashed pining that mutilated Fiona from the inside out, clawing at the nethermost and most defenseless areas of Fiona's heart. To the outside world looking in on a very misconceived woman, Fiona seemed to be blunt—perhaps a bit too much for her own good—and insensitive to the needs of the individuals who surrounded her.

To all the world, Fiona was egotistical and entirely narcissistic, considering only her vulgar, licentious appetite, and how she could manage to sate the monster that roared inside of Fiona. To the people that looked upon Fiona, and quite possibly, looked down upon her from their statuesque balconies, Fiona seemed to be a woman who had a heart of steel, an essence filled to the brim with bitterness, and stigma… shame when it came to the subject matter of past events, and how Fiona chose to uphold her image and present herself to the world looking in—a cruel world, a world of death and rot… a world of shit. To a newcomer, perhaps even an individual who had known Fiona for many years, as she was such an intricate soul, Fiona may have appeared to be hollow, having the depth of a kiddie pool, but Fiona was anything but trivial; hollow inside. Fiona was a beacon of passion—raw, unadulterated passion—ardor that could go as far as being described as infatuation, but nevertheless, she _felt_. Fiona experienced so many emotions, so many profound emotions, feelings that often cause Fiona to question her own sanity.

She had lost her mind years ago, gratitude to the Bourbon and cocaine, but Fiona didn't necessarily realize it, not in the beginning. Her supernatural powers aside, Fiona had always been well aware of the fact that she was different, that she varied immensely from the individuals encompassing her. She didn't possess the same mentality as her parents had, for example. Her mother, a bashful—surprisingly—and modest woman, had always believed that sensuality was a sin; a grievous immoral action that should have been conquered early on in life. Fiona's mother, for lack of a better definition, was indeed a bible thumper, following faithfully—blind conviction—in the footfalls of her Lord and savior Jesus Christ.

Fiona's mother had been absolutely appalled, and thoroughly frightened, when, at the age of four years old, Fiona set the family's bible aflame on the Davenport desk situated in the family room, the parchment folded inside of the sacred book sizzling and crackling. Her mother cried that day. Fiona could remember seeing her mother cry harder than the time she'd gotten the phone call informing the young woman of the death of Fiona's grandmother—a proud woman, a woman that stood tall; a woman that spoke her mind. Fiona grew up to resemble her grandmother, not only sharing facial similarities, but parallels pertaining to their thoughts, as well as their personalities. Whereas Fiona was capable, and adept at handling an overflowing platter full of stress, Fiona's grandmother was well spoken; vocal, and voiced her opinions often, even if those opinions ended up looping back around and biting her in the ass.

If Fiona hadn't known any better—more importantly, if she did indeed follow any set religion, which, she didn't—she would have thought herself to be a reincarnated version of her grandmother. She barely knew the woman, having only been a toddler when her grandmother passed, and even then, barely seeing the woman, but Fiona heard stories, lots of stories. It almost felt like Déjà vu, a sense of reliving past events, only through the eyes of another woman… a woman who would have probably grown to be just as ashamed as Fiona's mother was of Fiona.

She had been cursed from the beginning, barely having been given a chance to make something of herself and thrive. It wasn't as if Fiona could have changed her genetics. Even if she had been given the opportunity to do such a thing, she wouldn't. She wouldn't have been able to build herself the empire that she maintained—and was beginning to lose—today. She probably wouldn't have even given life to her precious Delia had she never met her daughter's father, a man that Cordelia never even had the pleasure—insert sarcasm here—of knowing.

Cordelia's father was an intoxicated fool, a man who couldn't tell his ass from a hole in the ground. The first time that he had struck Fiona, had been the last time. He was nothing more than a fling. Fiona never intended to keep the man around, and he knew it—it troubled him to no end; a perpetual ache. His death was made to look like an excruciating, but tragic accident. It would have been thoroughly enjoyable for Fiona, had she not gotten his crimson blood, as cardinal as the horrid hair that was strewn from Myrtle Snow's dandruff-capped scalp, splattered on her newest Zuhair Murad dress, an embellished lace peplum gown. She'd paid big bucks for it, too. Unwillingly, and completely regrettably, Fiona was forced to toss the gown in the trash, replacing it with the next best thing—a Monique Lhuillier dress, a mesh pleated gown with a pair of Ruthie Davis heels, stiletto ankle boots embellished with salient, and polished, spikes in the centre. At least, now, if Fiona were forced to slice the throat of another ill-advised man on the spot, the blood that seeped from his injuries would blend in with the pigments that Fiona showcased, and quite possibly, complimented her hourglass figure; all curves and velvety skin, flesh that begged to be groped and tended to, treated with proper care.

_It's a dance; a dance no one had to teach me; a dance I'd known, since I first saw my reflection in my father's eyes. My partners have been princes and starving artists, Greek gods, and clowns; and every one of them certain they led. But it's always my dance. I make the first move, which is no move at all. I always just understand that they will eventually find themselves in front of me; primitive, beautiful animals and their bodies responding to the inevitability of it all. It's my dance and I have performed it with finesse and abandon with countless partners. Only the faces change and, all this time, I never suspected that the night would come when the dance would end._

It had been so many years since Fiona had a great love affair, and collapsed into bed with a man that really rocked her Charlotte Olympias off. Fiona craved the caress of a man's calloused and rough hands—working hands—descending along the contours of her unsullied body, thick fingers that would sift through the champagne locks of Fiona's effervescent tresses, an embrace that would consist of rippled arms, all muscle and strength, coiling around Fiona's slender midriff, lips that would graze the back of Fiona's neck, directly beneath her hairline—hair that was now starting to shed from Fiona's pampered head—and a deep voice, melodic, yet firm, that would whisper sweet nothings into Fiona's ear, even though both parties knew well enough that the affair would last one evening, and one evening only.

Life was too short to be tied down to another individual's side, expected to be endlessly supportive and nurturing. There were benefits that accompanied marriage. Fiona was no stranger to this, as she had already gone through three husbands of her own, each one more handsome and striking than the last—with much influence in society, wealth and power—but this time around, Fiona wanted love. Fiona pined for a love that would last for an eternity, a love greater than that of Romeo and Juliet's love affair. She wanted to belong to someone, to have the privilege of being able to call someone her own—to find her place in another's embrace, arms that felt like, and resembled, home. In all her years, Fiona had never known a love like the one she desired. She could hope, but at the end of the day, when push came to shove, and it was time to accept the reality that was threatening to slap Fiona square in the face, her dreams would always fall through, and she would be left with nothing.

Fiona had relationships, great relationships—relationships with influential people in today's society, one of the many perks that accompanied the privileges of being the Supreme—but these relationships with so-called friends were merely based on petty interest and a craving for wealth and competence. Fiona had many assets to show for, but a great love affair was not among them. Ever since she had been a little girl, being raised by the Headmistress at the Academy, and growing up within its white walls, Fiona always wanted the things that she couldn't have, things that had always been denied to her. She wanted love. She deserved to be loved, at least, in Fiona's opinion, she did. Tonight would be the night.

_I'm just not ready to go quite yet. I want one more great love affair in my life. Now I think what I really want is just to belong to somebody. It's not too late for that, is it?_

Tonight, Fiona would step out into the world, step out from her Mercedes-Benz and let the world take a good look at her. Tonight, Fiona would live, and feel more alive than she ever had. Tonight, she would find the love the craved, all whilst taking a good roll in the hay; an evening of devotion, imbued with sweaty flesh and open-mouthed moans fueled by unadulterated lust…

 


End file.
